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<div id="verse1">
	<h3>Imitation of Spenser</h3>
	<p>
		Now Morning from her orient chamber came,<br/>
		And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;<br/>
		Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,<br/>
		Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;<br/>
		Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,<br/>
		And after parting beds of simple flowers,<br/>
		By many streams a little lake did fill,<br/>
		Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,<br/>
		And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.<br/>
	</p>
	<p>
		There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright<br/>
		Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;<br/>
		Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light<br/>
		Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:<br/>
		There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,<br/>
		And oar'd himself along with majesty;<br/>
		Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show<br/>
		Beneath the waves like Africa's ebony,<br/>
		And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.<br/>
	</p>
	<p>
		Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle<br/>
		That in that fairest lake had placed been,<br/>
		I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;<br/>
		Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:<br/>
		For sure so fair a place was never seen,<br/>
		Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:<br/>
		It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen<br/>
		Of the bright waters; or as when on high,<br/>
		Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky.<br/>
	</p>
	<p>
		And all around it dipp'd luxuriously<br/>
		Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,<br/>
		Which, as it were in gentle amity,<br/>
		Rippled delighted up the flowery side;<br/>
		As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,<br/>
		Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!<br/>
		Haply it was the workings of its pride,<br/>
		In strife to throw upon the shore a gem<br/>
		Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem.<br/>
	</p>

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<div id="verse2" >
	<h3>The Human Seasons</h3>
	<p>
		Four Seasons fill the Measure of the year;<br/>
		Four Seasons are there in the mind of Man.<br/>
		He hath his lusty spring when fancy clear<br/>
		Takes in all beauty with an easy span:<br/>
		He hath his Summer, when luxuriously<br/>
		He chews the honied cud of fair spring thoughts,<br/>
		Till, in his Soul dissolv'd they come to be<br/>
		Part of himself. He hath his Autumn ports<br/>
		And Havens of repose, when his tired wings<br/>
		Are folded up, and he content to look<br/>
		On Mists in idleness: to let fair things<br/>
		Pass by unheeded as a threshhold brook.<br/>
		He hath his Winter too of pale Misfeature,<br/>
		Or else he would forget his mortal nature.<br/>
	</p>
</div>
<div id="verse3">
	<h3>Fame</h3>
	<p>
		Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy<br/>
		To those who woo her with too slavish knees,<br/>
		But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,<br/>
		And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;<br/>
		She is a Gipsey, - will not speak to those<br/>
		Who have not learnt to be content without her;<br/>
		A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,<br/>
		Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;<br/>
		A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,<br/>
		Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;<br/>
		Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;<br/>
		Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!<br/>
		Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,<br/>
		Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. <br/>
	</p>
</div>
<div id="verse4">
	<h3> Ode on Melancholy </h3>
	<p>
		NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist <br/>
		Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;<br/>
		Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd<br/>
		By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;<br/>
		Make not your rosary of yew-berries,<br/>
		Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be<br/>
		Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl<br/>
		A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;<br/>
		For shade to shade will come too drowsily,<br/>
		And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. <br/>
	</p>
	<p>
		But when the melancholy fit shall fall<br/>
		Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,<br/>
		That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,<br/>
		And hides the green hill in an April shroud;<br/>
		Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,<br/>
		Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,<br/>
		Or on the wealth of globed peonies;<br/>
		Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,<br/>
		Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,<br/>
		And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. <br/>
	</p>
	<p>
		She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;<br/>
		And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips<br/>
		Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,<br/>
		Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:<br/>
		Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25<br/>
		Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,<br/>
		Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue<br/>
		Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;<br/>
		His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,<br/>
		And be among her cloudy trophies hung.<br/>

	</p>
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